Category: Blog

Just the other day I received a copy of the autobiography of Star Von Bunny from my sister. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Star Von Bunny, she is a beautiful bunny who became a top model. I read about her adventures and stardom and immediately fell in love with her. Imagine my surprise when on my run this morning I see laying in the side of the road her cousin, Star Von Bear.

I was on my four mile run. I was tired and sore. I was stiff and hurting, mentally exhausted. There she was, laying there in the gutter on the corner County Road 9 and Vicksburg. I saw her and my heart ached, but I ran past. I had a run to do. I had things to get to. I had goals to achieve and places to be. I NEEDED this run.

Stride after stride I could not get her off my mind. Who’s bear was she? Why was she there? How did she get lost? Is someone looking for her?

I struggled to my half-way marker and I knew I would have to stop and see her on my way back.

She looked tired. She was dirty and sad, long forgotten and quite a bit mad. She was hurt, hungry, and confused. She needed a hug, a kind word, a bath, and a meal. I picked her up slowly so I wouldn’t hurt her anymore. I held her gingerly and decided to bring her home.

The trip was difficult at first. I held her little, dirty body out away from mine. I was afraid of her filth. I didn’t want the mud and the sand against me. I had my cutest running shirt on and what if she stained it? What if she dripped on my shoes? And as I ran and thought of her life and where I found her, what she had been through….I gripped her against my chest. I held her tight to tell her that I was happy to have found her. I wanted to let her know that she would be okay. I would take care of her. I would clean her up. I would hug her. I would laugh with her and let her sleep in my bed. I will love her.

To the little girl or boy who lost Star Von Bear at the corner of County Road 9 and Vicksburg: I found her. I know she’s not “mine” and I will love her for you until you need her again.

I was recently invited to a girl’s pj party. I know, it might seem that I am a bit too old for pjs and toilet papering, but I’m not. The invitation was a nice surprise. It was being hosted by a woman who I think is amazingly intelligent and kind. In fact, when I got my e-vite and glanced through the who’s invited list, I asked myself (out loud), “Why did I get invited?” The women who were on the e-vite list totally outclassed me.

The day of the pj party came. Of those who responded “yes”, I was the only plain-ordinary-less-then-highly-intelligent, woman going. I called my sister in a panic. My only question: “What if they don’t like me?” and in her brilliant-don’t-take-shit-from-anyone-way she responded. “It’s not like middle school. They don’t invite the one girl from the trailer park to make fun of any more.” Not to be outdone by her common sense I say, “but they are all really smart and stuff. They know Shakespeare and read The Classics.” “What if they don’t like me?” I say again, just in case she didn’t understand the question. And she says one of the most profound things I have ever heard. She says, “Not everyone has to like you.”

WHAT?!?!? I make her say it again. “Not. Everyone. Has. To. Like. You.” she says. In that moment a sense of relief washed over me. It’s true. Not everyone has to like me.

I’m silly and immature. I’m fun and most often crazy. I’m sensitive and strong. I often try hard to not cry. I forget people’s names and don’t remember birthdays. I haven’t been to college and I use spell check a lot. My hair is naturally wavy and unnaturally died. I hate making decisions and I love potatoes. I’ve hurt and I’ve been hurt. I’m bold and insecure. I’m usually right, but when I’m wrong I admit it.

It started innocently enough. Dreams as a young child of being a fairy princess. Feeling myself having the grace and beauty of a prima ballerina (sans the mutilated feet), spending my days with the “nobles”, attending several tea parties with The Queen, always donning my tiara and tutu.

The changes happened slowly. The tiara and tutu were turned into “dress up clothes”. They were only to be used during slumber parties or when playing with the little sister. Then somewhere along the line it became uncool to be a princess. Most girls were coveting Olivia Newton John or Madonna. The princess gear was tossed in the back of the closet collecting dust with the barrage of stuffed animals. My heart was still aching for the sparkle of the tiara…the swish of the perfect spinning dress, but it was time to grow up.

So I did the right thing. I grew up. I got married (twice) and had kids (mine, his, and ours). I had jobs, bought a mini-van, and a house. I quit singing to songs on the radio. I wore grown up clothes and shoes. I even started wearing socks in the winter. I balanced my check book and paid my bills on time. My princess dreams were kept alive by my sister, a note card here, an ornament there…tiny reminders of what was in my heart so long ago.

And then some where in suburbia it hit me! I was not predetermined to be a boring, middle class wife and mother.

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Unless otherwise noted, I am the legal copyright holder of the material on my blog (unless it is a picture that I snagged from my sissy - those I might not have noted) and it may not be used, reprinted, or published without my written contest. Also, read this blog at your own risk.

Unless otherwise noted, I am the legal copyright holder of the material on my blog (unless it is a picture that I snagged from my sissy - those I might not have noted) and it may not be used, reprinted, or published without my written contest. Also, read this blog at your own risk.